Chapter Three #2
I take her hand warily. “Is he… in danger of buying a llama?”
“Not yet, but if one popped up on Marketplace, he’d be tempted.” She beams.
“Right. No llamas.” I shake my head and remind myself that I do have manners. “I’m Minerva Marino.”
“Minerva?” she repeats. “Not Min, Minnie, Minnow?”
“Oh, uh. I guess I haven’t decided yet.”
Marley settles in. “Then we’ll try them all and see what sticks. That okay?”
I nod, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Marley’s pretty and shiny and, as far as I can tell, normal.
Which means that she’s secretly plotting mean things to say, because women are always in competition with each other, even when they pretend to be friends.
So says my mother, and Frankie’s friendships have borne that out.
I haven’t had many friends, presumably because other women can perceive that I’m not a threat.
Marley doesn’t say anything about my appearance, though. I rarely bother with makeup, but at least my hair is clean, thanks to the shower. I don’t feel like a feral raccoon today. More like a stray cat in a room full of posh Persians.
She points out to the ice. “That’s Knight—number eleven. Cocky bastard with the hair.”
They all have hair, but when I spot the jersey number, I see what she means. I thought only anime characters had hair like that. I search for something complimentary to say about him, and settle on, “He’s fast.”
Marley sighs. “And he knows it. Watch for twenty-three—that’s your guy. Dubois. Quiet, but lethal. Like a man of few words in a romance novel.”
That surprises me. I’m pretty sure my mother has a secret stash of steamy paperbacks, but she’d never be gauche enough to mention them in public. “You read romance novels?”
She laughs again. “Babe, I devour them. I own every Johanna Lindsey book in print, and I’m working on my Beverley Jenkins collection. Did you know she’s written more than sixty books?”
“I… did not.” I have no idea what she’s talking about. This happens a lot, but usually with things people are supposed to know. This sounds more like a special interest.
“If you’re interested, I always have recommendations.”
“Thanks.” I know I’m supposed to be maintaining eye contact, since we’re talking, but I’m also supposed to be watching Tristan. Tristan wins. I continue to angle my body toward Marley, but my eyes are fixed on my new charge.
“Is he always like that? Focused?”
Marley tilts her head. “Tristan? Yeah. He’s got that Canadian Catholic guilt. Works hard like Jesus is watching. And I think he might be slightly afraid of the team owner, unlike Viktor Abbott, who deliberately provokes him. But Tristan’s a good one. You’re lucky.”
Lucky? Me? With Tristan in that kind of a way? Um… no… not happening. He’s my landlord, boss, and benefactor. But my eyes drift back to him on their own.
“Right.” I don’t know what to say to that, so I power on my tablet screen.
Marley opens her phone. I sneak a glance at her work. I don’t want to cheat, but I also don’t know what I’m doing. She doesn’t have that problem, zipping between apps, color-coding and organizing as she goes. I don’t even know what half those apps do.
Marley catches me watching. “Should I slow down?”
I dip my head. I feel like I’ve been caught cheating. “Sorry.”
“For what? Here, I’ll walk you through what I’m doing.”
I bite my bottom lip.
“I really don’t mind.”
“Would it be okay if I took notes?”
“Sure.” She waits for me to pull up a notes app. “You do that thing where you map data in your head, don’t you? My little brother has autism. High-masking, like you. He does the same thing.”
My thumb skitters across the tablet screen. “I don’t have a diagnosis.”
Neither of my parents would ever consider that I might be fundamentally different, though it’s obvious to everyone else. Marley’s known me for ten minutes, and she’s already singled me out.
She shakes her head, still smiling, but it’s not a cruel Frankie-smile, like a shark who’s scented chum. “You don’t need one for me to respect it.”
Respect. Not tolerate. Not weaponize. Respect. I don’t know what to do with that.
My family wouldn’t think a diagnosis, or the condition itself, would be worthy of respect.
They would nag and pick and peck and belittle me until I whittled away to nothing.
Even without a diagnosis, they were doing that already.
A diagnosis would have given my father permission to put his embarrassing daughter away in some kind of institution.
Marley reads something in my face and reaches behind her for a bottle of water, provided by the arena. “Here, Minerva. Hydrate. You’re vibrating. That’s your nervous system talking.”
I take the bottle from her and chug it down in a few gulps. As soon as the water hits my throat, I feel better.
“How was that?” Marley asks. “Being called Minerva, I mean.”
I smile at her as I tuck the bottle away in my bag. “It was nice. Thank you.”
“No problem. Now,” she holds out her phone with a flourish, “let’s walk you through the process of becoming a kick-ass assistant.”
For the first time in weeks, the panic in my chest loosens enough to let a thread of hope through.